


Fishing for Souls

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Breaking Up & Making Up, Dubious Morality, Getting Together, M/M, Magical Realism, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 08:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18989380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: Freddie does his research the next night, pulling up keywords and old websites asking about the existence of wishing pools or soulmates. He continues to look for clarification on what he asked for, if Connor truly is the embodiment of what five-year-old him wanted in a friend (and maybe in the future, a lover).





	Fishing for Souls

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to subvert the soulmate trope a bit. consider some of the ages fudged !  
> a more detailed explanation of tags exists in the endnotes.

Of creatures and figures from legends both big and small, nothing comes close to matching Freddie’s interest in the story of the wishing pool.

There’s an old Danish folktale about a circular disk of water known in their tongue as the wishing pool, or in later English translations, the soul pool. Supposedly, it was used by an old queen to fashion herself a husband when she found that no other suitor in the land was capable. Frederik knows the story well: his mother would use it to help get him to sleep as a child. It is a long story and one that covers years of soul searching. As such, it was rare that he would stay awake long enough to hear the ending.

The basis of the story is that a young queen ventures into the wood one afternoon and finds herself a magical source of water. There, she asks the spirits in the water for one thing, a husband. Because her soul was pure, it granted her wish on one condition, that she use three wishes to help narrow the search.

The wishes serve a purpose beyond shaping the person that comes to you: to help with soul searching. The pool granted the queen’s wish but made it her responsibility to find the man she dreamed of. It took many years of wandering, walking the earth with the commoners, to find her would-be husband. She would end up identifying him by his sapphire eyes, a copy of the soul water she used. And when she did find him, their holy matrimony blessed the kingdom with years of peace.

His mother always told him that he could “find magic if he went looking”. She spelled out his self-fulfilling prophecy in big, bold cursive letters. It’s no wonder fate would come to take him by the hand later.

 

When he turned five years old, his parents were too busy celebrating the birth of his younger brother to spend much time watching him. He still had a year before he began school, so he’s his mother’s right hand in the house when needed. When not, he’s left to his own devices, a dangerous thing for a child his age.

He’s there at the best, when his brother starts babbling, and the worst, when he can’t sleep because the baby cries are shaking the walls. Any of his important milestones are superimposed on his brother’s, such as when his parents take him out to his local rink for a skating lesson with Sebastian crying in his stroller. His father is around but more often than not on the box television set. The whole family changes to accommodate the new baby.

It’s not just the family that changes but also Freddie’s social life. If he’s going on playdates it is always him visiting a friend’s rather than bringing them over and it is hard to do any extracurriculars besides hockey because he’s pressed for alone time with one parent. His toys are a choking hazard that always under bars. None of his friends come by anymore. He spends hours on the swing-set out back with only his crayons and washable markers to keep him company.

The first time he walks down the ravine, he’s doing it to try and run away from his family. The reason being that earlier that day, when his brother came down with a fever, Freddie missed the first practice of the season so that his parents could take him to see the doctor. That meant that that morning, instead of skating around with his friends and meeting his coaches, he was in a waiting room with unfamiliar smells and sounds. He’s already tired of listening to his brother cry and then has to do it for an upwards two hours.

So he packs his backpack with crackers, crayons, and Legos and takes to the backyard. There’s a giant wire fence there that he can’t jump over. If you’re really looking, however, it’s plain to see an opening in the gating in the corner, by the weeds. He’s still small enough to be able to pull himself under, at the cost of getting his shirt dirty with wet soil.

Already, he likes the look of the ravine. The trees grow big and tall in every shade of green under the sun. Fungi and fauna suction themselves to tree trunks. You only have to wander a minute before you’re lost; Freddie’s is able to remember the way home because of the many lost children’s toys on the other side, a product of the residential zoning.

He tumbles, trips, and keeps walking. Sticks and small pebbles lodge themselves in his shoes. A thick sap glues his fingers together, the result of bumping into shrubs that seem to pop up out of nowhere. He presses on until he reaches a portion of the forest where the ground starts to fall out from erosion.

He sees the gargantuan tree roots form a protective ridge that stops him from falling over the slope. The gorge forms a triangular shape with a small river at the bottom. It looks shallow, the blades of white water smacking against the rocks and tree logs in its path. The source of it cannot be identified from looking alone, Freddie will have to get closer.

It’s beginning to get dark and by now, his mother will be cooking dinner. The anger about hockey has died with that sense of adventure; it’s hard to not tap into his need to chase the fireflies and continue exploring all the way down to the river but his hunger for a warm, home-cooked meal is stronger. In order to give himself the push he needs to appear back on solid ground, he has to dig his heels into the muddied earth. From there, it’s a simple trek, following the bent trees to the edge of his property.

He squirms under the fence just in time to see his mother look out the back door. “Frederik!” she yells. She makes a frantic hand motion to bring him to her.

Freddie gets an earful about keeping his clothes in good condition. His mother is dumbfounded as to how he got so dirty in what was supposed to just be a quick play outside but he at least has the sense to keep his mouth shut about his discoveries. Since telling her about how he used the guest bedroom window to try climbing onto the roof, he’s learned a valuable lesson about picking and choosing what he tells her.

Luckily for him, she assumes that he was playing pretend in the backyard. And he gets away with it.

 

He visits the forest many times over the week but never goes as far as he does the time he follows the river. That day, he packs crackers to munch on and waits for his baby brother to wake up so that his mom is busy. He tells her that he’s going next door and then assumes his plan of action.

He’s been getting bigger, so he has to pull apart some of the fence’s wires to push himself through the hole this time. Even still, the metal ends rip holes in his sweater. He takes the same path he uses always, following a straight line ahead. He uses his lower half to slide down the ravine, kicking up dusty old leaves as he goes. The foliage paints him green, brown, and black.

He decides to follow the flow of the water in the river. It splashes up on his feet, leaving his shoes wet. Birds scatter as Freddie runs ahead, arms flying out behind him. He’s too busy concerning himself with what’s up ahead to think about how far he’s going and is rewarded for it by finding a series of tiny rapids further down the steeping slope. He jumps from rock to rock until the rapids warn him of a small waterfall, only a foot or two big, at the basin of the river.

Right in front of him, rimmed with water vapour and mist, is a pool of water. The river bends around it, afraid to touch its waters. He can only guess that the spring is fed by the river but the water is a completely different colour. It’s lighter, sparkling. Tiny chips of gold float in the water. The middle of the pool is a light cyan colour that creates ripples of every different shade, working up to a navy blue that laps at the edges of the circular pond. Despite all that, it looks shallow. He wants to stick his feet in it.

So he does. His shoes’ velcro straps are ripped apart and he rolls the band of his socks until they can be tossed aside. The water is a warm temperature. It sucks his feet in and holds them underwater. It’s hard to let go. It _wants_ him to be there.

That’s the point when he realizes this might be the pool his mother was talking about. The wishing pool that could give you someone to love with all of your heart. It fits the picture his mother spelled out using words. He has yet to see any other source of water decorating each drop in silver tinsel and glow.

He bends over until his mouth comes close to touching the water. He already knows what he wants.

“I want a friend who’s got red hair like me and plays hockey,” he says.

His aunts and uncles like him for his hair, calling him handsome. He’s so proud of it that he wished his little brother wouldn’t get it so that he’d continue to get all of the attention in the family. His friend should deserve that too: hair like fire. Maybe he’ll be a goalie also. He assumes the pool will know what it’s doing when it picks them.

He stays around for a while before getting bored. There’s so much to do and see, a pool doesn’t hold his attention for long. He lifts his feet out of the water and struggles to pull his socks on over his wet skin. When that doesn’t work, he leans back on his elbows and holds his feet in the air, blowing on them to help them dry faster. That particular spot in the forest has no trees overhead, so the direct sunlight strokes his small toes with such care that it helps flick away water pellets.

In time, he’s ready to go. He slaps his velcro on and begins walking in the direction of home, collecting mushrooms on the way. It poses a greater challenge than it did before, as the slope is very steep. He has to grab onto tree branches and hoist himself over dead stumps and clumps of the earth where he risks losing his footing. He bangs up his left elbow pretty bad trying to break one of many falls.

He does get home, eventually. The sun is dying in the background by then. It’s plain to see that he’s been out far past the house’s boundaries but he tries to do damage control by going into his room to nurse the scrapes that are to be found all over his body.

It’s short-lived, trying to be sneaky. It’s no fun to be the adventurer that found the wishing pool with no one to tell it to. Mom would think he was so brave for making a wish. Maybe she could make one too.

He finds her in the kitchen, apron on and hands dirty. She has her hair pulled back behind her ears in a tight ponytail.

“Mo-a!” he cries. “I found the wishing pool.” Freddie pushes the stepping stool beside her with his tiny hands to get closer. “It was shiny and it was sparkly."

Her large hand flattens his hair to his head. “Oh did you?”

“I did. It was all kinds of colours and warm!”

He expects his mother to be excited at his discovery. Instead, her face changes. It morphs into dismay. “Did you go into someone’s backyard?”

“No.”

But the confirmation doesn’t ease up his mother’s face. Freddie can’t put a word to how her expression troubles him.

“Freddie,” she puts her spatula down and grabs both of his arms, “did you touch the water at all?”

He tries to pull away from her. “I put my feet in,” he says.

He thought she’d be excited to learn that he found the pool all by himself but the opposite couldn’t be more true. He tries to run back to his room to dab wet toilet paper on his cuts but is grabbed and sat down on the stool. It’s her version of a time-out when she’s in the middle of cooking.

“I can’t believe you went out. The water must be full of chemicals,” she says. Seconds later, she’s calling down his father. The problem landslides. His dad is not mad at him but scared and angry come across the same way when you have a temper.

She continues talking about it over dinner. Freddie keeps his head down. Sebastian’s the only one at the table not disappointed in him.

 

He planned on visiting the pond again with or without his mother’s blessing but the next day his father is in the backyard with his toolbox and two friends, fixing the hole in the fence. When he asks his mother about it, she says that she “doesn’t want Sebastian crawling under the fence as you did”. Being angry with him doesn’t stop her from bringing him a platter of cheese and crackers to eat while he’s watching the men work.

In a month’s time, he’s forgotten that the pool even existed in the first place. That, or he’s given up. The first school year comes and goes and no new students come forward that fit the description that he gave the pool. He has to live with the reality that magic not real and never existed in the first place. His mother tells him as such when he asks her to tell him the story again. If anyone was going to find something like that, it’d be “the scientists and doctors out in the world every day,” she says.

He trains even harder to be better at hockey. Now that his dad is letting him play in the net, he can finally go shopping for pads and a helmet he can put Lego stickers on. He gets to watch all of his father’s games, even getting the opportunity to sit on his pads in the dressing room when he’s being interviewed. The compliments and awards keep coming and it’s no wonder that in the weeks after his father retires, the long branches of Andersen family say they wouldn’t be surprised if the name is back in the net on the national level by the time Freddie’s in high school.

 

* * *

 

It takes some time to realize Connor is the universe’s gift to him.

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not the night Connor scores on him. That night, he’s not focused on anything but beating himself up for missing such an easy save. He had no opinion of Connor until the goal announcement in the arena decided to tell Freddie that the goal was his first. That’s even worse. He’s a rookie of all things and Freddie should have been better prepared to come head to head with him.

Connor is out of sight and out of mind for a long time after that. In fact, Freddie doesn’t see him again until he’s traded to the Leafs and even when they do meet, the only defining part of Connor is his red hair. By that point, Freddie’s met plenty of people with the colour already. When it comes to who makes up Freddie’s friend group, he sticks to the more vocal minority. Connor fades into the background, becoming just another forward on the team.

It takes a few months but he gets there. Connor’s eyes are what first make the realization bloom in his head. They’re one of those things you never consider because you don’t see them up close. Not to mention, he’s not spending time pressed up against Connor’s side. They’re eight stalls apart in the locker room with their own circle of friends. Maybe if Connor was a defenceman, things might be different. Freddie’s yelled at them on numerous occasions and had to look into their wide eyes the whole time.

With Connor, it’s different. The night of, he bumps into Connor by mistake at a party. Connor’s washing down a plate and Freddie is getting a glass of water. He’s dehydrated after a night of drinking. Freddie doesn’t expect Connor to be standing directly where he needs to be. He’s so uncoordinated that, by fault of his own, he’s closer to Connor than usual.

Trying to be nice, Connor asks him a throwaway question, out of the blue. Freddie’s mind is in the wrong place; he looks up to try and come up with a response. That’s when he sees them.

They’re a beautiful green-blue fusion that’s only one tint away from being turquoise. It’s the colour of the forest: the undergrowth, the moss, the tadpoles and minnows swimming around in the river. It could just be the beers talking. It probably is.

Words don’t come easy to Freddie. He looks away before he freaks Connor out to the point of no return, pushing a bunch of words together to answer Connor’s question. By tomorrow, they’ll go back to being strangers. That’s the gist of their relationship, if you can even call it that. Yet even with all the alcohol in the world lubricating his thoughts, Freddie can’t shake that image of Connor’s eyes.

 

Staring at Connor during the postgame celebrations would be bad enough as is but what makes it really creepy is the fact that he doesn’t know why he’s doing it. Eyes are eyes; they’re there to see. Freddie’s never been one to write poetry about pretty eyes.

It’s on the mind but not what he’d call an obsession. An obsession would be looking up Connor’s social media profiles and zooming in on photos of him for a better look. Freddie’s doing his research, trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle. Is it because he’s familiar? Has he seen him before he even knew who he was? It never truly hits him until one of his bi-monthly phone calls with his mother.

“Your father was talking about getting a contractor in to fix the backyard fence. The thing destroys your hand if you so much as touch it,” she says. Freddie has her on speakerphone as he makes breakfast. He has to really listen in to hear her over the sound of the working toaster.

Freddie thinks back to the cuts and bruises he saw in plain view on little brother Valdemar’s hand and wonders if she’s referring to that. It looked like he’d just walked into a bramble bush backwards and knowing the misadventures he goes on with his friends, it sounded like the best explanation at the time. Taking into consideration the broken mess that is the back fence, he doesn’t blame his mother or Vald for wanting to see it gone.

“I would’ve thought he’d just go back and fix it himself,” he says as he spreads jelly on his buttered toast.

“He usually puts up more of a fight, I know. It’s not like last time though, he doesn’t have the same strength as he did in his youth.” She clicks her tongue. “Not like last time at all.”

Freddie hums in agreement. He uses his knife to split his toast into two and carries the plate in one hand, the phone in the other, over to the island so that he can sit down.

She clears her throat. “Do you remember watching him when he and his friends came over to fix it? I just found the photo of it a week ago. You looked so mad at him.”

“Kinda,” he lies. It’s blurry.

“We were so worried you had gotten chemical burns from that river. We never did hear back from reporting it.”

Freddie takes a large bite out of his toast. “The river?” he asks, mouth full.

“The backyard river, something about it made you love it.”

Freddie swallows his bite. It feels like eating chips of ice. It’s not satisfying at all. Just a lump sliding down the back of his throat. The focus isn’t the act of eating, it’s trying to work out what it is his mother’s saying. The river isn’t clear but the thing it leads to is.

“Hey ma?” he asks. Worry pinches his voice, making it sound higher than usual.

“Yes?”

Freddie shoves his plate forward and stands up. “Can I call you back later? Something came up.” He speaks into the phone, hoping the power in his voice will stop her from asking any questions.

“Of course,” she says. “Love you.”

“Love you,” he says back, then hangs up. He almost throws his phone down onto the island, sinking into the chair with a groan. As if life wasn’t already complicated enough.

Now it’s magic, big stupid magic. Magic didn’t exist then, why should it now? He shouldn’t be looking toward it for a solution like he is.

He does his research the next night, pulling up keywords and old websites asking about the existence of wishing pools or soulmates. He continues to look for clarification on what he asked for, if Connor truly is the embodiment of what five-year-old him wanted in a friend (and maybe in the future, a lover).

He finds the story of the queen with relative ease. It’s a long one, spanning eight pages of the website he’s on--that goes without the translations into three different languages also made available and for use. He reads through the Danish, the Swedish, and the English versions all in one go, putting his multilingualism to the test.

All versions of the story reference the eyes and Connor’s eyes look like a carbon copy of the water in the pool. Nothing he’s ever seen in real life can compare. It has to be magic at work, how else would he make the connection?

It sits there on the edge of his conscience, not changing anything about the friendship between him and Connor besides for charging every interaction with nervous energy. If he got a dime for every awkward conversation he ‘accidentally’ started with Connor he could probably make future Auston Matthews money. It might’ve been better for both of them if it’d never come to light in the first place.

Connor checks off all of his boxes. Being a hockey player, he’s got front row seats to Connor Brown, live and in person. He’s there in that same dressing room when Connor’s only wearing a towel, the sweat making his back shine. Being made aware of how cute Connor gets when he’s in a pleasant mood isn’t doing him any favours either. It just makes him want to talk to him, experience tells him that might not be the best idea until he gets his ducks in a row (but he’s going to do it anyway).

 

So as it turns out, finding your teammate is your soul wish complicates the team dynamic. It also makes him unnecessarily involved in everything Connor does. Freddie’s more often than not looming over him on media days, trying to start up a conversation from the few seeds Connor’s planted about his morning ritual or what he’s going to cook for dinner.

He can tell that Connor is somewhat happy about all the new attention he’s getting, if a bit worried. Not that Freddie can blame him, their few run-ins aren’t what he’d called class-acts. It’s the hard part about being a goalie, having to make up for the team’s mistakes as well as your own. Connor just got lumped in with the group.

That being said, nothing bad comes out of it. Once Connor learns it’s not a passing phase and Freddie’s not out to sell his kidneys on the black market he warms up considerably, even letting Freddie take him out for lunch post-practice. They get a few weird looks, one-on-one occasions are saved for only the bestest of friends, but those other people are secondary to Connor. It’s the “in” that Freddie needs.

He’s done his research and picked out a nice lakefront location, not too formal but nice anyway. They’re not over or underdressed. They can focus on just talking, laying everything out on the table for a change.

Freddie’s ready to open his wallet and give him the sun, the moon, and the stars but Connor’s as modest with his food as he is his opinions and only gets himself a simple chicken salad. Freddie tries to tempt him with items from the dessert menu but Connor only shakes his head and says, “the trainers would be ready to butcher me if they knew I was having any more sweets.” Cute visual image aside, it doesn’t help Freddie come up with ways to woo him.

So he digs down into his headspace to come up with ways to bring Connor to him. If Connor’s really his soulmate then it shouldn’t be a problem, right?

The wishing pool wouldn’t go all out and make him a soulmate that would be incompatible gender-wise, Freddie can say that with certainty. Good thing too, he’s got better things to do than sit on the side and watch Connor play duck-duck-goose with his hookups until Freddie spots a man in there and gets the right go-ahead.

He’d probably have more success if Connor knew what he was doing but oh well. He only picks battles he knows he can win, situations that will always be under control. Gift giving is one, the nice texts another. It’s easy to see that Connor’s getting special treatment when Freddie calls in the fourth liners for a stern talking to and only tells Connor to “keep skating”. At least, to him it is.

Days drag on and he doesn’t know if he’s any closer to Connor then when he started. Connor looks to receive the gifts well, with a secret smile on his face, but then resets when someone else enters the room. Maybe he’s talking more about it behind Freddie’s back? That would be nice but it’s not helpful in the form of the positive feedback he needs right now. No sense in pandering with gifts if Connor’s going to love them and lose them in a series of days.

 

So he goes to Zach.

He’s close with Connor, more so than anyone else on the team. The video game tournaments they do for the media are reeking of the Zach-and-Connor bromance, as Gards calls it. He’s not wrong. Zach looks like he got stuck in solid cement with Connor right next to him.

If Zach’s so open with Connor then the first question that comes out of Freddie’s mouth should have an obvious answer.

“Is Connor seeing anyone?” Freddie asks him. It’s at the ‘perfect’ time, right as they’re standing in the airport’s designated coffee shop, waiting to board the plane. There are people in earshot and team members over at the sweetener and creamer station but trying to stop the words from coming out only makes them spew.

“What?” Zach unhooks the earphone in his left ear. Freddie couldn’t see it because of the dark strands of hair.

So God gave him a second chance after all. “Nothing,” Freddie says.

Zach stops Freddie from walking away with a hand on his chest. “No no, tell me.”

“I was asking if you knew if Connor was seeing anyone,” Freddie says, his voice low. Zach has to lean in to hear but has no trouble understanding, if the bounce of his shoulders is any indication.

“No,” Zach says slowly. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Why Connor though? If you’re trying to get in on someone’s love life I’d say Auston or Kappy would be a better choice.” Zach puts his words down carefully, able to see he’s in foreign territory.

Freddie just looks at him. He lets Zach translate the rest. Zach was there when Connor was opening up boxes from the local pastry businesses--the small but good ones--and he’s had the pleasure of seeing Freddie jump all over any opportunity to spend time with Connor or help dig pucks out from the corner.

Zach searches for words. “I don’t think he thinks of you that way.”

“Yet,” Freddie says back, a bit too hard on the landing. He tries his best to relax his shoulders so it doesn’t look like he’s going to tackle Zach to the ground. “I want to know what he likes.”

“You’re already doing what you can.”

He’s flattered but it’s not what he wanted to hear. “He’s cold to me.”

“Are you sure you’re doing what he wants and not what you want?” Zach says.

Freddie presses him, “so what exactly does Connor want?”

Zach waits for Travis to pass them before speaking again. It feels like in the minute or so that they’ve been talking that the coffee place has packed in twice as many people, the Maple Leafs being a big part of the problem which each player taking their time with their coffee order.

Though as he laters finds out, the silence is not so much for privacy than it is that Zach doesn’t know how to answer the question. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Companionship,” he lands on.

“Okay.” Freddie sits on that. “Well I’m not doing this for a hookup, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

There's an awkward pause.

“Well, good luck I guess,” Zach says, with no heart put into it.

It could be his soul talking nonsense again but Freddie has the distinct feeling that Zach would be giving him more support if Freddie was going about courting someone else. Luckily for him, if Zach wanted something to spark between him and Connor, it would have happened by now.

Freddie takes a long sip of his iced coffee. “Thanks.” That's the dying word to any unwanted conversation. He assumes it's over and leaves.

As he’s walking away, he hears his name get called. Twice in fact, when he doesn't stop after hearing it the first time (assuming it was the ambience of the airport). When he turns around, he sees Zach jogging toward him.

“Hey--sorry. Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night.” Zach shakes his head. “I can put a good word in, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t--I just want him to know I’m open to that kind of thing,” Freddie says.

“Yeah. I’ll tell him.”

Freddie’s stomach clenches. “Don’t tell him that we talked,” he says, then realizes it sounds too much like a demand. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

“It’s fine. I know what you mean,” Zach reassures him. He touches his elbow to Freddie’s, then lets Freddie go. To where he walks after, Freddie has no idea. He doesn't want to know. Right now, he'd prefer to exercise and get that nervous energy out of his system for good, something that will be impossible until they touch down in California and get booked into their hotel.

Freddie doesn’t see Zach again until they’re boarding the plane. He’s sitting next to Connor, who ducks down when Freddie walks into view. Over the chatter of the players already sitting down, Freddie can hear Connor whispering like a school girl. It's something, alright. Progress, he hopes.

 

The thing is, magic is something mainstream society doesn’t believe in. To say that you have been using spirit world magic just makes you out to be a boy who cried wolf kind of character. Freddie learned this when he was young; his own mother wouldn’t take his word for it, passing the whole thing off as the shenanigans of a five-year-old. And maybe in some ways, it was. He can’t hold that against her. It’s his burden.

In his mind, in a world where magic was accepted in everyday life, he would walk up Connor and proposition him, right on the spot. He’d kiss his fingers, his knuckles, and the backs of his hands. And later, when Connor was on the verge of falling asleep, he’d tell him the story of the wishing pool. It’d stick and they’d live happily ever after.

That’s the vision, at least.

He still has yet to find out if that’s Connor’s thing or not. Public displays of affection are for the extroverts which Connor is, decidedly, not. But he’s fine approaching the team on something and doing media stunts to make other people laugh. It’s one of many things Freddie still has to work out about Connor.

Since the beginning of his second season in Toronto, any energy not aimed at playing at his best is for figuring out more about Connor. It’s its own dilemma separate from playoff runs. Falling in love with someone takes a lot of time. It’s not something you decide on overnight, love at first sight be damned.

Which makes him wonder: if he hadn’t found out that Connor was his soulmate, would he even care?

That’s a stupid question. Of course he would. The soulmate thing was what helped him find out Connor _was_ the person for him. The little things, how Connor tried to pay for his lunches when Freddie had the money to spare or how he would fall behind when the sidewalk they were walking on began to thin when he should _know_ Freddie will just walk the curb so that Connor can hug the inside and be safe.

How do you articulate to someone that their birth is tied to you without sounding like a crazy person?

You can’t, so he doesn’t. He swan dives into something else, something more practical. He corners Connor with an invitation for dinner.

“Save your cheat day,” he says as they walk. “We’ll do something nice.”

Connor steps in front of him, almost making them collide; disastrous for someone as small as him. “Can I pick the place?” he asks. Before Freddie can speak he adds in a “please?”

That’s fair. Lately, he’s been on a spree of picking out restaurants with three-course meals and tall wine glasses. Creature of habit, that’s how he’d score ladies back when he was in Anaheim. And Connor is always swimming in large, ratty hoodies eating pre-prepared meals; he deserves to be treated for a change.

So he’s surprised when Connor drives him to a family-run fish-and-chips parlour.

It’s not a place Freddie would ever look at on the street and pick out but it’s for Connor. He doesn’t mind entertaining a smaller salad and a side order of fries while Connor sinks his teeth into fried halibut. The most potent thing he’s having is probably the Diet Coke in his glass so he wouldn’t really call it a cheat day. It is something different, however.

“My mom loves this place,” Connor explains mid-meal. He uses his napkin to wipe the grease off of his bottom lip.

“Oh yeah?”

“They used to take me here when I was a kid.”

Freddie’s heart skips a beat, going on irregular. There’s something so special about knowing that Connor trusts him enough as a friend to take him here. Those weeks building on months of courtship are worth this one admission of love from Connor.

He tries to mask his thoughts with a smile.

“Thanks for taking me here,” Freddie says. Connor pushes his tartar sauce toward him when Freddie picks up a lone fry.

Not everything he eats there is great but he leaves completely full, letting Connor go crazy with what he decides to order for the both of them. He tries more orders of fish in one day than he would in a year but it’s a special occasion so it’s easier than usual to swallow it all down. Accompanying it all is the bounce of Connor’s laugh. He doesn’t seem to shy away from shoving food in Freddie’s face when a year ago, it wouldn’t even cross his mind.

Something clicks as they get back into Connor’s vehicle. It’s like he’s seeing Connor for the first time, the tender care that goes into something as simple as pushing his hair back. He could watch it forever. He wants to.

Connor’s got one hand on the gearstick and one on the wheel. Freddie, on the other hand, has one hand on Connor’s shoulders, moving it up to tip back Connor’s chin. The other is on Connor’s thigh.

Connor looks at him for a second, taking in what it is Freddie’s trying to say. It’s the longest second of Freddie’s life. A simple answer is all he asks for. And then, as the answer to all of Freddie’s prayers, Connor leans in with his upper body, eyes half-closed. That’s the all clear sign he needs: Freddie swoops in and kisses him.

Connor shares the kiss but it’s easy to see the inexperience, the likes of which makes Freddie’s heart pound. Something passes between them. Connor might describe it as a spark. Freddie would call it the connection of their souls, together at last.

When Connor invites him to stay the night, he accepts without question.

 

They jump right into relationship status on Connor’s recommendation. With any other person, it would feel like too much, too fast, but Freddie has all the reassurance in the world that it’s going to work out. Exclusivity rights are just the cherry on top.

Connor takes to Freddie’s condo like a fish to water. Once he’s in Freddie’s king sized bed there’s no getting him out. Otherwise, he’ll whine and spin himself a cocoon of fleece and wool blankets. Freddie will have to pick him up, blankets and all, and toss him over one shoulder. He likes to call it his weekend workout.

It’s hard to stop looking at Connor after that. Still in the honeymoon phase, he doesn’t stop staring after him until long after everyone else has vacated the rink and/or locker room.

“You’re such a goof,” Connor says to him as he’s collecting his bags and wheeling them down the hall. “Someone’s going to notice you staring.”

“Let them,” Freddie says back.

Freddie didn’t know he could have this. Why wouldn’t he make the most of every opportunity—jump into every experience? It’s not just about sex—even if the sex is really good—it’s about sizing Connor up. It’s about showing him to his father on the annual father’s day trip for his opinion and finally getting his mother off of his back about dating.

It’s about thanking the stars and whatever is up above for giving him someone like Connor.

Fuck if he can’t stop staring at Connor's eyes to remind him of the fact. His genetic code speaks one way and his soul another. They occupy the same space, one makes up who the other is. And yet, they’re so different. Connor’s great in that he fills the conversations where Freddie goes quiet and Freddie can take up space when Connor’s small, transforming his presence.

He still doesn’t know how to break it to Connor that the phrase ‘meant to be’ applies to them on a literal, not metaphorical level, if he even can. Every time he gathers the courage, over drinks or not, it only takes one look at Connor’s smile to give up. Why throw a bomb into the relationship if there’s no need? They’re so happy together as is.

Except there is a need. It’s inevitable that something is going to slip; it can’t be perfect forever, soulmate or no. Because how is he supposed to live with the fact he’s done this to him?

Would Connor have found someone else he liked better if he had other options? Did being Freddie’s soulmate streamline everything at a cost to Connor’s love life?

It’s made worse by more...domestic problems. Those being the times that Connor does things with good intentions that are made very uncomfortable through no fault of his own. Take the family dinner: Connor wanted his family to get up close and personal with Freddie. That’s fine. He’s met the Browns before but dinner takes their relationship to a whole other level. It’s a step he wants to take, to make progress toward being a part of their family also.

Connor helps him pick out a bottle of wine he knows his mother will love at the liquor store. Freddie goes one step farther and picks up a nice card and some finger chocolates. He doesn’t show Connor until they’re at the door, ringing the doorbell.

“You even got white chocolate,” Connor says in awe. “How did you know?”

Freddie waves the chocolate in front of Connor like it’s a cat teaser. “I figured if you liked it enough to eat two bars in one night you must have gotten it from someone.”

Connor’s cheeks blow out with pink colour. He says nothing but bats at Freddie’s shoulder.

Inside, after going through a round of well-mannered greetings, Freddie’s walked to the dining table to entertain some appetizers. He’s only been inside for a minute and is already admiring the wall decor: the Leafs propaganda. The first thing Connor’s mother takes him to see is the plaque on the wall commemorating Connor’s first NHL goal. The puck he buried in Freddie’s net is glued to the back piece.

“I hope you’re not too mad at him for it,” she teases.

“The guys like to joke about it a lot,” Freddie answers. “I’ve heard it all.”

It’s hard to believe he didn’t know it was Connor who was scoring on him. Maybe the goal was fate too. First meetings always have to be dramatic in stories, after all.

Connor comes up from behind him and takes Freddie by the hand. Besides the puck, Freddie gets to meet the family cat and the face of young Connor. Even back then, his eyes were something to behold. And to think Freddie was just a few years older, unaware that he even existed in the first place.

Dan Brown keeps them all together in the living room by the gas fireplace. He talks about everything from the holes in the Leafs defence to his wishes to upsize the family television for something bigger. It’s nothing Freddie and Connor haven’t heard before. Usually when people run out of hockey-related speak to throw at them, they have to start picking apart their surroundings. Freddie’s fine just being there, holding Connor’s hand for security.

In no time at all, dinner is ready. Freddie takes the spot of Connor’s older brother at the table, who’s over playing in Europe. He feels massive. The Brown family isn’t small, just smaller in comparison. It makes passing the butter dish and salad bowl child’s play.

“It’s nice to see another redhead at the dinner table,” Connor’s mother jokes. “We were thinking Connor was going to get lonely.”

Connor, who’s preoccupied with scooping corn onto his plate, takes offence. “What did I tell you about mailman jokes, mom? They’re not funny.”

Freddie stays quiet, unsure of what it is they’re talking about. Don clues in on his confusion and drops his fork to give himself free-reign over his hands.

“It’s just a running joke here, Connor’s the first redhead in generations,” he says. “We joke that he was someone else’s.”

Connor doesn’t look too happy about him going on to explain it, hiding his face in his hands. Freddie tries to play it off with a laugh, hiding how fear rings in his chest. He goes quiet for the rest of the evening, only speaking when spoken to. For most people not named Connor, that reads as the usual.

The first redhead in generations they said. What would they say if they knew that Freddie was responsible for it?

 

For an entire month well into the playoffs, those thoughts rot in his subconscious. He lets them.

The whole soulmate thing turned out to be more complicated than he would have hoped for. Not that he has any regrets about hooking up with Connor, it’s probably the best decision he’s made in years. No, he just wishes he could go back in time before he asked for a soulmate in the first place. He wishes he found it years later when he knew what he was talking about.

Because right now? It’s tearing his life apart. He can’t so much as hold Connor without freaking out. His thoughts run at a mile a minute. All he can feel is guilt. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat. He feels like he’s keeping some big secret from Connor, and he is, but it’s different: it’s not a secret like him having an affair or asking for a trade to another team. It’s life and death, particularly the former.

The solution is right there in front of him: just tell him. Connor’s none the wiser and looks at it like they’re two peas in a pod. He shouldn’t care that much. But he deserves to know why Freddie came around as he did.

Freddie tells himself at night he’ll do it so that sleep will come. However, that doesn’t mean he won’t take his time. Those mornings they spend together, Connor scrunching up newspaper and batting it at Freddie with his stick in his apartment’s living room, that’s what magic is made of, more than any wish. He’s not ready to give that up yet.

It’s not like he can spring the truth on Connor just because he wants to. Connor’s in the middle of a goal drought, it’s something he complains about all the time. The last thing he needs is Freddie tearing down the house. Or maybe that’s Freddie blowing things out of proportion again. So in his confused state he starts doing all the chores in the apartment and helping Connor cook dinner to the best of his ability, doubling as both a show of devotion and a means of cushioning the blow of what’s about to happen.

When the time _is_ right, he takes the opportunity. It’s brunch at Freddie’s place after a practice that was let out early--technical difficulties they say. Connor’s in a good mood--not too of a good mood--and is using up Freddie’s milk as per the usual.

Freddie pops the bread out of the toaster, picking up a butter knife from the utensil drawer to spread butter on it with. “Connor,” he starts. “I’m sorry but I can’t do this.”

The first words are the hardest. It doesn’t help that his choice was awful to begin with.

He hears Connor draw his spoon in his cereal. “What?” Connor asks. He looks scandalized.

Freddie expects him to go on a tangent. Everything about his body language and posture indicates as such. Instead, Connor decides to subvert expectations and keep his mouth shut.

“It’s just,” Freddie stops himself, recalibrating. “It’s a long story. Let’s just say I haven’t been honest with you.”

Connor is looking at him over the cereal box. Not happy looking at all. He eggs Freddie on with the cock of his chin.

“You’re my soulmate,” Freddie says in one go.

“I--what?” Connor asks. His face mutates into a look of confusion.

“You’re my soulmate,” Freddie repeats himself. “A long time I wished for you Connor and my wish came true.”

Connor’s eyes change on a dime, from displeasure to, well, _pleasure_. Pleasure with a tinge of pity, the last thing Freddie wants to see.

“That’s sweet,” Connor says. He’s _wrong wrong wrong_ it’s not sweet. He should be sweating bullets right about now.

“Connor,” Freddie repeats himself. “I’m serious.”

“You’re serious?” Connor asks with a growing smile. Still horsing around. “So I’m a wish?”

“There’s an old Danish legend about there being a pond. If you find it, you can wish yourself a soulmate. And I did, back when I was young.”

“Sounds cool.”

“Connor, it’s real.” His voice gets louder, shocking Connor into submission. “You’re here because of me.”

Connor pushes the cereal box to him as he sits down. “So what, you don’t want me because I’m too good for you or is this some power fantasy?”

“I created you,” Freddie says, laying it all out on the table. “It was magic, it was...whatever! But I wished for you. It was fate. I asked for someone just like you, who could play hockey like me. Who looked like _me_.”

He’s talking so fast that he’s not sure if the words connect or if the combination of them paints one bigger picture. It’s troubling source material as is without him butchering it.

Connor picks up on the panic with ease. He’s finally looking a little worse for wear.

“So you actually believe I’m here because you asked for me?”

He begins getting more and more frantic. “I asked a pool, a wishing pool home in Denmark. I’ll show you it if you don’t believe me. There’s this legend about a queen--”

Connor raises his hand. “Freddie, there’s no such thing as magic. And I can’t be with someone who thinks I’ve been put on this earth for them.”

“That’s not it,” Freddie argues. His hands grip the plate he’s holding. His toast is going cold. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be something you’re not for me.”

“Thanks,” Connor says, voice flat.

“I just can’t be with you knowing that.”

“So you’re dumping me?”

It would really help if he was a native speaker. Even his broad knowledge of the English language can’t save him from the hole he’s digging for himself.

“No--yes, but you didn’t do anything wrong. I just can’t live like this, feeling guilty about you like I am.”

“I’m flattered.” Connor stands up. “But whatever. If you don’t want to be together then we shouldn’t.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I should just, go.”

“Oh, yeah.” Freddie tucks his chair in so that Connor can walk behind him to the sink. Without turning around, Freddie listens to see what he will do. He can hear the sink turn on and the sound of water smacking against the bowl, rinsing out soggy cereal remains, but Connor says zip. Just as fast, he’s putting on his shoes and is out the door.

 

The off-season starts horribly. It’s not like he wanted to break up with Connor, that was never the intention. Didn’t stop it from hurting like a bitch though.

In the grand scheme of things it wasn’t a do-or-die thing. Connor came back, as always, and gave him the opportunity to talk. It didn’t go well. Freddie stuck to his story. Turns out telling the truth has only ever harmed him.

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve backed out. Blamed it as him being lovesick and not knowing what it was he was talking about. Then after the fact he could take Connor back to bed and apologize using his mouth.

Connor only waits on him as long as there’s hope but soon moves on. He picks up someone on the side to fill the hole Freddie made. She’s very pretty, with looping curls and big brown eyes. Freddie’s not one to stoop low and make fun of the better halves on the team, but her voice is so piercing he has to walk away from the introduction, something Connor doesn’t look too happy about.

Serves him right; why take him to meet her in the first place?

He keeps his mouth shut even as his Instagram feed updates and he sees the pictures posted as a testament to their love. Connor’s page is made up of every love cliche in the book when two months ago, he was scared of posting a single picture of Freddie because of backlash. A valid concern looking at the sports climate and their ability to pick apart everything for clues. Now? It’s pissing him off.

It just never ends. Every day Connor has something new to show, some spot they’ve decided will be theirs forever. It makes Freddie sick. He has to unfollow Connor to stop it from twisting the knife deeper.

 

The new season picks up with plenty of news articles trying to decide the standings without a single game having been played, and over the summer he’s put on weight. Lots of it in fact, the reason being that his backup poses a threat for a change. For more reasons than one, Sparks is another person who gets on his nerves. But that’s bound to happen on a team. He already can’t be near Connor so, go figure.

He doesn’t know when love changes into spite. Not that he wishes harm on anyone, especially Connor, but he seems to be looking for it. Screening him in net, standing in front of his stall when he’s trying to change, just to name a few distractions. He won’t go away until Freddie’s snapped at him, which does no good because the next day he’s back at it again.

The single guys are still on the hunt for the worst movie of the season and it’s the only way he can get a semblance of peace with likeminded people. Auston’s got one too many notches on the bedpost but is good about not bringing it with him to dinner. Tyler Ennis is cool. Mo minds his own business.

But even outside of the rink, Connor’s grip on his life still holds firm.

“Larissa was talking to Emily the other night, at the game,” Tyler says. The glass he’s drinking from makes his voice echo.

“Who?” Freddie asks.

“Larissa. Brownie’s girl.”

Freddie tries to keep his face neutral. He reminds himself that they don’t know. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, she’s already thinking about engagement, dude. How weird would it be for Connor to be married? Brownie of all people, even though I swear we’ve got people that have been together for years longer.”

“When did they meet?” Auston asks him, drumming his fingers on the stack of napkins at the table.

“Dunno,” Freddie says.

“I think April, Connor says,” says Tyler.

Auston counts on his fingers. “April, May, June...that’s still only nine months dude.”

“Some guys are like that,” Freddie says. He sure was. Just a few months more plus the soulmate drama resolved and he’d be ready to pop the question. Why wouldn’t he? There was no way of losing in the first place.

“Still,” Auston drags on. “I wish we’d got a month or two more with him.”

Their hot plates arrive and the conversation ends. Freddie’s got no appetite. He just wants to go home, massage the kinks out of his back, and sleep. Luckily, Auston and Tyler are good friends, they let him off the hook for the night.

With the long weekend coming up, Freddie books two tickets to Denmark. His mother is delighted, letting him know that she’s preparing his bedroom as they speak. The rest of the family is excited too, with little Valdemar happy to be able to show how much he’s grown as a goalie over the year. It’ll be good to spend time with them, hopefully away from an internet connection for his own good.

 

Denmark moves at a different speed from the rest of the world. It’s peaceful, divorced from the hustle and bustle of Toronto. Herning, in particular, is great. He can’t explain how happy it makes him to kick his feet up on the couch and relax. Because she hasn’t seen him in a while, his mother is much laxer when it comes to rules like that.

He’s got business to do, however. At five, his mother is going to go grocery shopping for dinner. Sebastian is with his girl, Amalie is downtown, and his dad is with Valdemar for team practice. Everyone’s busy except him.

He digs through the closet and finds his old work boots, still fitting him if a little tight. He tugs on a winter jacket and makes his way down the porch steps in the backyard until he’s face to face with the new and enforced fence. He has to try out a few methods before he finds a way over, involving his goalie flexibility to work out.

He’s back in the ravine. It looks different with all of the snow on the ground and he has to be careful to leave distinct tracks so that he doesn’t get lost. The earth, when his boots can meet it under the crunch of the snow, feels different. It feels dead.

Even though the river has frozen solid save for a small semi-circle around rocks and debris, the pool is in perfect condition. He can see steam rise up from it as he approaches. It defies all logic in being how it is.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” he says to the water, in Danish. “I came here when I was a child.”

The water sloshes over the sides of the pool. A few pulses touch the toe of his boots; he likes to think of it as the water looking for and finding the same child that it once catered to, a long time ago.

“I only used two of my wishes, can I ask for another?” he says. Nothing happens. The water goes still.

He’s not sure if there is a process to asking for wishes, so he chooses instead to copy what he remembers doing all those years ago. He takes off his shoes and puts them aside, then his socks. For the first time in years, his feet sink into the water. Mud sucks them down and holds them there.

“I want my soulmate to love me,” he says and the words don’t feel real, at least not to him.

The water takes into consideration his plea, churning. A few bubbles rise to the surface.

He waits for a verbal reply and gets nothing. When it’s clear all he’ll get is radio silence, he takes his feet out and re-dresses them, then hurries up the hill, not looking back. He’s home just in time to help his mother unload the car and cook dinner. His mother is none the wiser if only a bit suspicious that he barely touches his dinner.

 

He knows it’s rotten. He knows what he asked for, dwelled on it the whole plane ride there, so it wasn’t something he could pass off as being spur of the moment. He really doesn’t have an explanation. His saliva goes sour when he thinks about it.

He doesn’t have the time to make a second trip down to the pool before he has to start packing for his flight that afternoon. In a strange show of sickness, he’s not all horrified at what he’s done. Maybe he’s even saving Connor from a fate worse than death; if he’s Freddie’s soulmate then his ability to be happy with anyone else will be severely diminished, maybe even detrimental to his well being.

He comes into practice the next week with his wits about him, not knowing what to expect. Connor comes in about five minutes after him and makes a show of walking over to his stall and sitting down.

Connor’s not just broody at practice, he’s out for blood. When he takes his slap shots they feel like getting hit by golf balls and he takes every opportunity to get on Freddie’s nerves. Freddie didn’t even imagine it could get this bad in the first place but here they are. It’s not like he can’t say anything either.

He must’ve used his last wish on something else. He should be happy that he’s not gone about accidentally controlling his soulmate’s decisions until the end of time but in a strange show of mediocrity can only mourn the loss of Connor as a friend.

“Why is Connor mad at me?” he asks Auston on an outing. He’d just been checking the group chat, watching Connor cozy up to everyone except him. He _has_ to know what he’s doing to Freddie, this can't just be by accident.

“Why are you asking me? He’s your friend,” Auston points out. He slows his walking so that he’s side by side with Freddie.

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean not anymore? That’s probably why.”

“I said a few things but that was months ago. Haven’t talked to him since.”

“He’s busy with his girl, maybe that’s why.”

Freddie cocks his head. “That’s why he’s mad at _me_?”

Auston’s hands fly up. “Listen, I’m not a psychologist. Talk to him yourself.”

Freddie isn’t going to do that. He likes the skin on his back, thank you very much. Moreover, he’s not going to bend to Connor’s stupid demands. If someone’s going to come around, it’s not going to be him.

 

He manages to keep his composure from January to February. They’re contending for a playoff spot by March and it’s easy to see the effects it has on the team. Everyone is hyped up. Excitement is everywhere and so is tension: arguments break out more often than not in the locker room. Usually resolved in a day or two, nothing hurts the team dynamic.

He blames that fear for why Connor’s being more a nuisance than usual. Usually, he just makes exceptions for his behaviour and moves on--he’s weak like that--but even he has his limits. Connor steps over that invisible line, mid-game of all things, when he shoves Freddie to get onto the bench. It wouldn’t be the worst thing ever, if not for the tidbit that Freddie has just been pulled in response to a three game lead by the Sharks; having to deal with his personal problems on top of work is too much to bear.

Even Sparks of all people knows to keep his mouth shut when they walk back to the locker room, defeated. The defencemen don’t poke their heads in, even the coaching staff know to give him space. Connor broke that rule. Freddie’s done trying to be the bigger person here.

He finds Connor outside with his luggage, trying to pass time on his phone. Freddie grabs the phone right out of his hands, holding it out of reach. They lock eyes.

“Are you going to tell me what I did, or are you going to keep throwing temper tantrums?” Freddie says.

Connor tries to swipe his phone back, to no avail. Freddie’s too tall. “Give it back.”

“You’re an asshole,” Freddie says.

“You’re one to talk,” Connor says.

Freddie gets a bit mean. He crowds Connor’s space and forces him back. “What did I do, Connor? Tell me and I’ll stop right now. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

Connor opens his mouth, looking ready to firebomb him with details. Just as fast, he’s holding himself back. It looks like he’s forgotten about what he’s supposed to say. Freddie waits him out with both arms crossed.

“Well?” he prompts.

Connor tries the second approach to solving problems: running away. He gets three steps in the opposite direction before Freddie grabs him by the arm and pulls him toward his chest to close the distance.

“Connor,” he says again.

“Let go of me,” Connor says. It comes out like a growl. Freddie has to let go, afraid that Connor might get scrappy if he doesn’t.

Connor gives himself a safe length between them for his own protection. “So I bumped you, big deal. You don’t have to come over here to bitch about it,” he says.

It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“If you hate me so much then why not just ask for a trade?” Freddie’s shoulders tense. “I’m sure management would thank you for it. Being trade bait and all.”

It’s a low blow and Freddie knows it. Connor’s mouth flies open. Even given the nervous energy surrounding them, it’s too much.

Connor leaves seconds later without saying a word. Freddie doesn’t chase him.

 

Home life is just as dead and dreary as always. He still keeps the place tidy in case of company coming but the heart’s not into folding the laundry and making the bed, seeing as how with the latter he’s just going to mess the sheets up anyway.

Just as he’s preparing to go to bed, there’s a knock on the door. The whole street is quiet. He can’t see a single car in motion from his window. Trees are bending to the force of the wind. It’s madness outside and he can’t see a single reason why someone would be at the door.

He’s about to return to bed and flag it as a mistake when the knock comes again. This time, he has no real option but to answer or have to deal with hearing it for the next ten minutes. He slips on a simple shirt to make himself look presentable. He’s at the door in under a minute, even with him dragging his feet the whole way.

He pulls away the door and is blasted with wind. It chills him to the bone. A heavier shirt or sweater even would’ve helped deal with the droplets of water flying onto his face, neck, and chest.

Connor is standing there, drenched. He looks miserable, his red hair plastered to his forehead and ears. His cheeks are blown out with red colour.

“Connor,” Freddie says in greeting. “What are you doing here?”

He’s wary. He’s not going to start another fight, not here. His condo is one of the only places that holds the good memories of the time they shared together. He’s not going to ruin it with another screaming match.

On a second look, Connor’s eyes are swollen. He’s just been crying. His lips move, so he must be saying something, but Freddie can’t hear him over the wind.

“What?” he yells.

“Can I come in?” Connor says, a tad louder. Freddie steps aside and lets him in.

Connor’s still in his suit, missing his tie. He’s sopping wet and it’s hard to look at. Freddie hopes it wasn’t him that reduced Connor to that. He couldn’t get a look at him on the bus to make sure he was alright.

Connor’s holding his hands, head down. Freddie waits him out; there has to be a reason he’s there. The longer the silence stretches out, the more it looks like Connor doesn’t want to say it.

“Why are you here, Connor?” Freddie, finally, asks.

Connor hiccups. He walks toward Freddie, but instead of getting up in his face, he wraps his arms around Freddie and wedges his nose into the imprint of his collarbone. It throws Freddie for a loop.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says.

“What?” Freddie can’t help but ask. His shirt is so thin he can feel the grit of the beard Connor’s trying to grow through it.

“I shouldn’t have been mad with you.” Connor’s choked with emotion. He’s got nothing left in the tanks up there. Both of his hands fist the cotton of Freddie’s shirt.

Freddie manages to wrangle Connor into the living room, hoping that it helps ground Connor in a sense of security. He fetches towels from the guest bathroom and dries Connor’s legs and shoulders before using the rest to blot Connor’s hair.

“I broke up with Larissa,” Connor says, dropping what should be a bombshell into the conversation. Freddie surprises even himself by having trouble feeling sad about it. He puts the towel down.

Connor continues, “she just wasn’t right for me. I think she was just a rebound.”

“A nine-month rebound?” Freddie questions. Auston said she was even thinking about engagement.

“You said you didn’t want me, what was I supposed to do?”

Freddie’s eyes close. “You dated her because of me?”

“It’s not just something you can come back from,” he says.

“But you looked so happy.”

Connor crosses his legs. “I was happy with _you_. Why did you break up with me? I wanted us to be together.”

That’s a no brainer. “I couldn’t live with the guilt. I felt like you were only with me because you had to be.”

“But see, I was never forced to. You were sweet to me and I liked you. That was _my_ decision.”

“I--”

Connor grabs both of Freddie’s wrists and holds them apart. “Look, I don’t have any problems with you believing what you do so long as it’s not cruel to me. I don’t know about ‘soulmate’,” he uses finger quotes, “but I do love you.”

The words rush out of Freddie’s mouth. “I love you too.”

“So why are we doing this?” Connor laughs humorlessly. “Why are we dancing around each other?”

Freddie throws him a curveball. “I thought you didn’t want to be around me.”

Connor kicks his legs out, letting go of Freddie.

“I didn’t--I was angry,” he says, “because you didn’t try to get me to come back. And that’s my fault, I never told you anything.”

“You had a girlfriend, I wasn’t going to do anything, I respect you too much.”

“Yeah I suck, I know. But you,” he points at Freddie, “didn’t listen to me when I asked to talk, so we’re both terrible, can we get over it?”

He looks so hopeful. He crawls into Freddie’s lap, forcing his head up.

“Please?” he says.

Freddie wants to bring up soulmate thing again and detail every reason why Connor should never trust him. But perhaps it’s better this way. Explaining things only serves to frustrate Connor and wound him. Connor would never believe him anyway, not in a million years.

He collects Connor in his arms and falls on his back, bringing Connor with him. Connor lands on his stomach with a giggle, using one hand to align Freddie’s mouth with his so that their lips can touch. They settle on the couch, Freddie accepting Connor’s lazy kisses and smiling at him when he asks what’s wrong.

If Connor’s going to be devoted to him forever as his soulmate, the best thing Freddie can do is be the same for him.

**Author's Note:**

> The dubious morality/consent tag exists because it’s ambiguous whether Connor harboured feelings for Freddie before he wished that his soulmate would love him. This can be read as a forced change of mind.
> 
> Regardless of how the story is interpreted, Connor faces significant emotional struggle over his feelings for Freddie. He gets into a relationship with a woman he has limited investment in and spreads lies with the intent of hurting Freddie. Freddie and Connor's relationship is somewhat unbalanced and unhealthy.
> 
> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!


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